


Blessed Silence (cursed silence)

by LeapAngstily



Series: Search the Ground (for a bitter song) [1]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Angst, Implied/Referenced Sex, Infidelity, Love Triangle, M/M, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-06 03:37:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1101945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeapAngstily/pseuds/LeapAngstily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The last phone call of the Christmas Eve: Cris has moved on (sort of), Kakà needs to be needed (not really), and three people cry before the night is over.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blessed Silence (cursed silence)

**Author's Note:**

> BBC Christmas specials have corrupted me, I can’t write anything positive during the holiday season! This is also the first fic I’ve finished in over a year and very much unbetaed, so I apologize for the poor quality.

_Christmas is a time when you get homesick – even when you're home. ~Carol Nelson_  
  
  
It always surprises Kakà how even a bustling city like Milan quiets down as the Christmas Eve reaches its final hours. People are gathering in churches for the midnight masses, or enjoying the company of their families and friends.  
  
Exactly what he should be doing now.  
  
It is the blessed silence that allows him to hear the buzzing of his phone in his bag. He had turned it on silent mode when he put the children to bed. Before he headed out for some time of his own.  
  
‘Time of his own’ had gradually gained a new meaning since he moved to Madrid (since he met Cris). What used to mean moments of silent prayer, long walks somewhere no one recognized him, or that one minute of concentration before an important game, turned into secret encounters and ugly lies to his family.  
  
Guilt clenches his insides as he sits up in the bed and reaches for his phone. Not because he got involved with Cris, but because he still clings to this secrecy even after coming back to Milan and leaving Cris behind.  
  
Because what used to be  _their_  lies now exclude Cris as well.  
  
The phone stops buzzing when he finally fishes it out. The unanswered call reads  _Cristiano_. Who else would call him at this hour?  
  
Kakà gathers the blankets more closely around himself, as if Cris could see his state of undress through the phone, and dials back.  
  
“Ricky? I thought you were asleep,” Cris picks up on the first dial sound, and Kakà can actually hear the smile in his voice.  
  
“You hung up too soon,” he counters with a forced laugh before softening his voice, “It’s good to hear from you. I’m sorry for not calling lately.”  
  
“You should be. You know I have nothing better to do than sit around waiting for your calls,” – Kakà can almost see the playful pout on his perfect, perfect lips – “No, I get it. Been a crazy month in your end, hasn’t it?”  
  
 _Crazy_. Exactly the word he would have used.  _Mental_ , possibly. The mattress dips under him and he hears a soft huff from the other side of the bed.  
  
“Yeah, we’ve been pretty busy.” Understatement of the year.  
  
“I was kinda hoping to play you in the Champions League, you know?” Cris picks up from his silence, keeping the tone relaxed, aware the ongoing season is not a pleasant topic for Kakà, “But at least you’ll still come to Madrid, right?”  
  
“We might still draw you for the quarter-finals,” Kakà notes, always an optimist. The thought of seeing Cris again, really seeing him instead of the games he manages to catch on TV or the rare midnight Skype calls, sends a warm wave through his body.  
  
Then the guilt comes back – a glance over his shoulder, fingers ghosting over the dark curls just barely visible between the too many covers and pillows, careful not to actually touch.  
  
“We should meet up. Maybe I could find time to come visit before the Christmas break is over,” he says quickly, cutting in just as Cris is about to say something. Anything to keep Cris from reading too much into his silence, to keep him from guessing what is going through his head.  
  
Cris is quiet for a long time – contemplative silence, sad silence – “I’d love that, but don’t you have someone else to worry about now?”  
  
  
 _Blue is all he remembers later: blue, contemplative eyes, looking at him over Robinho’s shoulder at training; an arched eyebrow, a silently mouthed ‘welcome back’ when their eyes meet. This is his captain now – a calm, quietly strong presence. And blue, blue eyes._  
  
  
“Caroline will be fine with the kids for a couple of days,” he assures Cris, praying in his head this is what Cris means, because the other option is too painful. But of course Cris knows, he has always known what Kakà is thinking, even when the Brazilian himself does not quite understand it.  
  
“Ricky, we made our choice when you left; there’s no reason to keep clinging to the past,” Cris sounds so calm, almost too calm to be sincere. So calm it almost screams of desperation –  _I’ve moved on, I want to move on, just give me a fucking reason to give up for real!_  
  
“I’m not clinging on anything. Is it really that bad if I wanna see my friend?” Kakà laughs, so obviously forced he cringes inwardly. If Cris had any doubts before, he definitely got his confirmation now.  
  
“You always liked being needed, didn’t you? Now you have the whole team depending on you, Ricky,” Cris says softly, his voice now shaking just enough to betray his tears, “The young ones, they really idolize you – who wouldn’t? I’m the last person to blame you for not walking away from them.”  
  
 _Not walking away from **him**_  is what Cris means and what Kakà hears. But while Cris is so painfully right, he is also so very wrong. Because it is not the young ones or the openly admiring ones that really need him in Milan.  
  
  
 _Another match lost. The unshed tears of frustration, anger, fatigue, are burning his eyes, but he needs to stay strong for the team. He recognizes the same desperation in their captain’s eyes. For the first time he notices the hurt behind the strong façade – he understands how lost and helpless the captain must feel under the constant scrutiny. Under the pressure that should not be only his to bear._  
  
  
“You never needed me like that,” he points out testily, not admitting or denying anything. His tone is revealing enough for Cris.  
  
The statement is plain wrong, of course it is. They had depended on each other, which had made them equal in every aspect. Together they had learned to stay strong for the other people’s sake. It had lasted so long, until they had suddenly realized they had no need for each other anymore.  
  
“That’s not true; I needed you as much as you needed me,” Cris whispers, both of them acutely aware of the past tense.  
  
But for Kakà the need never disappeared. He never was as independent as Cris.  
  
  
 _He looks so small: half-collapsed against the corridor wall, shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs; the blue eyes, after months of fighting them, finally let the tears fall. It is a sight that Kakà just cannot turn away from – and when he collects the young man (still so young, the same age as Cris, he remembers) into his arms, the constant weight inside his own chest lightens just a little._  
  
  
“What if I told you I never stopped needing you?”  
  
“I’d say you’re a big fat liar and you’d know I’m right,” Cris is back to the light tone, as sure as he ever was of himself, “I saw your Christmas video, you seemed like you were having fun. All of you.”  
  
Riccardo shifts next to him, snuggles against his hip before settling back to comfortable sleep. He is not generally a cuddly sleeper – not like Cris, at least. Sometimes Kakà misses the clingy hotness of their nights in Madrid, others he welcomes the newfound coolness of personal space.  
  
“So you now stalk the Milan channels, huh?” he teases dryly. No need to mention he still faithfully follows every single Real Madrid source to keep up with Cris.  
  
“Not my fault Junior found it on Youtube and went all ‘Uncle Ricky! Uncle Ricky!’ on me.”  
  
“Cris, Junior is  _three years old_. Since when did he know how to use Youtube?”  
  
“Would you believe me if I said this morning?” Cris laughs good-naturedly, “No but seriously, it’s good to see you so happy. Worth giving you to the rivals.”  
  
 _Worth giving you up_  is left unsaid, hanging loud and clear between their long-distance connection.  
  
The bells of a nearby church chime for midnight and Kakà opens his mouth to wish Cris happy Christmas but he is beaten to it.  
  
“It’s midnight, you know,” Cris sounds wistful, like his mind is somewhere far away, “I was always jealous of Caroline for getting to spend all the Christmases with you.”  
  
“We did invite you and Junior over every year. It’s your fault for declining,” Kakà offers, but he knows it is not what Cris means. What Cris wanted is what Kakà is now giving Riccardo.  
  
 _Riccardo is different, because he would be alone. No one should be alone for Christmas._  Kakà knows his reasoning is wrong – that if Riccardo is alone it is only by his own choice. But lying to himself is better than admitting that he needs this at least as much as his captain.  
  
Cris huffs a humourless chuckle, “Merry Christmas, Ricky.”  
  
“Merry Christmas, Cris,” he whispers, the ever-present guilt clenching his gut again and tears threatening to fall. They end the call with promises to meet up when Milan travel to face Atletico, just the two of them, just like old times.  
  
 _Except nothing is like in the old times._  
  
Riccardo is awake, has probably been for a while. He always was a light sleeper. He feigns sleep for a couple more minutes, giving Kakà enough time to collect himself after he puts his phone down. Kakà is grateful for it.  
  
“Not that I dislike being your dirty little secret or anything,” he finally quips as he sits up, his fingers sneaking to caress the back of Kakà’s neck, “But it would be polite to at least go to another room before you start lying to your boyfriend about me.”  
  
His fingers accidentally brush against a particularly sensitive spot – the spot Cris discovered when exploring every inch of Kakà’s body on their one month anniversary so long ago – and on instinct Kakà slaps the intruding hand away, his reply coming out harsher than intended, “He’s not my boyfriend!”  
  
 _Not anymore._  
  
“Then am I?” Riccardo breathes out in a frustrated huff as he climbs off the bed, and Kakà is fairly sure he was not meant to hear the question – which is all fine by him, because he does not have an answer for it. He probably never will, not before he lets go of Cris at least.  
  
“I’m taking a shower. You should head home to your family before your wife starts suspecting something,” a yell from the bathroom door before it is slammed shut.  
  
Kakà ignores the silence that follows – no running water, not even sounds of movement against the bathroom tiles – and pulls on his clothes before heading out of the apartment.  
  
 _Happy Christmas to you too_ , he thinks bitterly as he wraps his fingers around the small gift box Riccardo must have slipped into his coat pocket sometime during the night.

 


End file.
